His Butler, Secretive
by thebluevalentine
Summary: While on a mission for Her Majesty, Ciel must break a chain of mysterious murders with one thing in common: each victim was marked for slaughter. As a new enemy emerges, Ciel quickly learns that there are some things even Sebastian can't protect him from.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

"Oh, no!" the maid cried, regaining her balance on the high-up stool and desperately trying to hold on to the remaining plates as a resounding smash came from below her - the remains of fine china that had yet to be used. Frustration inched its way onto her cheeks. "Not another one! What am I doing?!"

The sound of chaos signaled the beginning of a new day at the manor house of the illustrious Phantomhive earldom. The manor house is nothing out of the ordinary: typical of all families of nobility, the house of Phantomhive has in its long list of assets a maid, a steward, a gardener, a chef, and a butler.

The maid is a shy girl, with dark red hair that in the light seems almost purple. She has an avid adoration for milk, but is terribly farsighted and wears large glasses that take up most of her face. In her clumsiness, the milk she so loves seems to be the only thing that never drops from her hands. May-Rin has become synonymous with the sight of broken dishes, and can regularly be found accidentally staining the Young Master's tablecloths as she pours wine for guests or otherwise causes further headache with her blindness. And, it is not above her eyes to mistake wood garnish for shoe polish, causing her to mutilate the old, handcrafted woodwork of the grand staircase.

"Ho, ho," Tanaka smiled behind his tea cup, amused by May-Rin and her hopeless nature. He would help, but he was too sore to move much. So, he watched. "Ho, ho, ho!"

The steward is a frail, old man who loves tea. Three years ago, he was injured in a fire that claimed much of the manor house, but returned after it was rebuilt. However, because of his injury, Tanaka cannot do much more than drink his tea and keep records, both of which he does quite admirably.

"May-Rin, can I help?" Finny rushed over to the red-faced maid, but when he reached out for her, what felt like a light tap to him was more like a shove. The poor maid was sent toppling, the dishes flying into the air.

The gardener is a young lad, hardly more than a boy. Little is known about his origins, other than that he was not allowed outside, ever. Now, though, the young blond is under the raven wings of Phantomhive, having taken up a gardening position that allows him to be in the sun at any hour of the day. However, despite appearances Finnian is not merely a scrawny boy. His skinny, malnourished form is somehow strong enough to pull trees from the earth - and that is no exaggeration. Finny often struggles to contain his strength, and the Earl thinks it best if he _stays_ outside – May-Rin destroys enough dishes as it is, without broken walls or legs being added into the mix.

"Look what you've done!" Bard screamed, cigarette dancing with his lips. Panic-stricken, Bard helplessly made to catch the dishes with his flour-stained apron – if he could save but one of these ugly dishes, he thought, maybe he would be spared the punishment to come? "Catch them, catch them!"

Baldroy, the Head Chef, comes from England's sister nation, America. Being a former soldier, Bard, as he is sometimes called, likes the hotter side of life – namely, explosives. Instead of cooking with traditional means, such as with a stove, Bard prefers the subtle arts of high-powered (and sometimes custom-made) artillery and explosives to do all of his cooking. Dynamite is his favorite, making his heavy smoking habit a little more than dangerous in the small confines of the basement kitchen. Even if he is the chef, his food is often little more than coal.

To fix all of this chaos, Earl Phantomhive has his most faithful, most loyal dog: the butler, Sebastian. More of a miracle worker than anything, Sebastian mends broken dishes, beautifies the gardens, prepares each and every meal – and still manages to secure his own, tending to the Young Master and nobody else. There is nothing Sebastian cannot do, be it cooking, cleaning, teaching – but that's because Sebastian is not quite what one would think.

A dark shadow suddenly appeared in the blink of an eye, sending Bard spinning through the air, where he landed on top of May-Rin and Finny, who'd been trying to help the poor maid up, looking mortified.

"Ho, ho, ho," came Tanaka's voice from the corner, sullied through his tea cup.

"Ow, ow, ow..." Bard rubbed the back of his head, glancing up with one eye at the spot where he was thrown from.

His cigarette almost fell from his lips.

The butler stood where Bard had been, balancing neat piles of the fallen dishes in both palms and – Bard's eyes opened wide – on the top of one shoe. Looking very much like a striking crane the way he had to hold himself, Sebastian glanced to the three servants on the floor.

"You three should be more careful," he said - not angrily, but certainly not happily. "I asked you to prepare for the guests, not to destroy everything."

"M-Mister Sebastian!" May-Rin's face turned an even darker shade of red. Rushing over, she took the dishes from him and hurriedly fled from the scene.

"We just came in after we heard a crash," Bard huffed, annoyed. He pointed to the pile of broken glass that had been a plate.

Sebastian promptly handed him a broom. With a sigh that hinted frustration, the butler pulled one of his white gloves tighter onto his hand. "Why don't you all take a page from Tanaka's book? Perhaps it would improve you a little."

Sebastian turned to leave, but Finny, eyes glowing in amazement, spoke up. "That was the coolest thing I've ever seen! Mister Sebastian," the gardener ventured, "How did you do that?"

Sebastian grinned. "I'm just one hell of a butler."

Whether he is called to save a dinner party gone awry or to probe the underbelly of the London underground, there is nothing Sebastian cannot – would not do for his master. But that is because of the price his master will pay to have him. You see, Sebastian is far too good to be true. Or, at least, too good to be human...

After all, he is a servant of the Phantomhive family. What would he do if such meager skills as these were not in his repertoire?


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

As with the commander of any army or the leader of any enterprise, so it is with the master of a house. He is the king of his nation, the law of his land, and the ruler of the palace. His presence is felt through the whole of the household. Of all positions a man may hold with respect to a house that of the Master requires the most particular of personalities. The Master must be strong, not afraid to discipline those who have done wrong; the Master must be brave, able to handle stressful situations that allow him to have such a high position; and the Master must also be intelligent: without his wit behind him, the Master is nothing more than a servant to another will.

Nevertheless, is it not also true that without servants of his own, a man cannot ever hope to adopt the title of, "Master?" One lonely King is not enough to win a chess match. He needs people below him and at his side. Most of all, the King needs a Knight – someone who can strike with stealth, with force, with class; catering to the King's wishes with every part of his being. Most importantly, a Knight must see to it that the King remains the King.

So, then, is it really the King who is the one in power?

To Sebastian, the answer was blatantly obvious. However, sometimes, the answer does not really matter. After all, it was not like old times anymore. These days, he was merely a butler. It was his sworn duty to serve his master – his king.

Smiling to himself, Sebastian put such needless thoughts out of his mind. He needed to focus: the rice was almost ready to be switched over.

Placing the partially cooked rice into an oven-safe dish on the counter, the butler set to removing the bones from the smoked fish and flaking it into large pieces. Once that was done, he allowed a generous chunk of butter to melt down in a pan on the stove and quickly diced up a small onion, which slowly began to brown in the golden liquid burning over the flame. Finally, Sebastian added the fish to the concoction – but not before adding some curry spices and a few special items to thicken the mix.

Turning off the stove, graceful fingers wrapped themselves around the handle of the pan. Bringing it over to the container with the rice, Sebastian stirred the two dishes together. Covering it with a lid, the now nearly completed work of art was set in the heat of the oven to mature.

With only twenty minutes before the food in the oven was done, Sebastian readied the morning tea – the Young Master had taken a particular liking to Earl Grey, which, interestingly enough, complimented today's breakfast.

Now, then...

Once everything was done, and all the dishes and food were in order in the dining room, Sebastian's next task was to wake the Earl – one thirteen-year-old Ciel Phantomhive.

One would think it was hardly the place of a thirteen-year-old boy to be the head of the family – or to run Funtom Company, the highly successful toy and candy business known far and wide for its excellence. However, Ciel was not like most boys of his age. His reality was a special one: he had had his position thrust upon him similar to the way in which cold water is doused on a passed-out drunkard.

------

Ciel was born on December 14, in the year of the Lord 1875, to doting parents Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive. For the first few years, Ciel had a normal life, and was, essentially, a happy child. However, being a noble family would cost the Phantomhives much.

Ciel's father served Queen Victoria as one of her so-called "Watchdogs" - a noble who would do Her Majesty's "dirty work," ridding the state of its enemies, removing things that could be potentially embarrassing to the Royal Family, and similar tasks, not all of which were even close to ethical boundaries. Vincent, though a kindly soul, earned many enemies in the name of his country, and one day it came back to haunt him.

On Ciel's tenth birthday, a group of men attacked the Phantomhive manor, murdering Vincent and Rachel. Ciel was kidnapped and branded with a mark of slavery. His new owners, wicked Satanists of the London underground, wanted to use his organs –the blood of a pure, innocent child– for a sacrifice in the name of their deity, practicing a form of black magic that thrived in the dark recesses of England's white city. That day, the happy child of the Phantomhive family died a slow, painful death.

However, it was not the end.

Sebastian remembered when he had first set eyes on the boy. At just ten years old, the depth of the anger and hate that poured from the tiny form that lay all but dead on the altar was enough to bring him into this world. Blood poured from the youth's nose, dripped steadily from his mouth and ran through eyes glazed over with the oncoming touch of death, but his soul had not yet departed from his body.

So, Sebastian approached the boy.

"Well, aren't you a very small master?" he had said, and he could not help but smile as the tortured soul managed somehow to gaze up at him through those lifeless eyes. "You've summoned me," the demon went on. "That fact won't change, not for all eternity. What has been lost can never be regained. I know what it is you want, and I'm willing to help you obtain it.

"So," he said, "…choose."

There was no hesitation.

"This is an order," Ciel screamed, his body suddenly convulsing on the altar as he returned to life – one blue iris glowing with a Faustian mark, the pentagram sign that was the seal of his contract with evil. "Kill them!"

Luckily for Sebastian, he had always been fond of the color of human blood.

------------

Just as suddenly as he had fallen in, the butler emerged from the depths of his memory to find that he had now arrived at his destination. Wheeling a tea-laden tray into the Young Master's bedroom, he glanced over at the four-poster bed, where the former was all but hidden underneath layers of blankets, still quite asleep. Rather accustomed to this, Sebastian momentarily ignored his sleeping master and went to the windows, throwing back the large navy curtains and letting dawn shine freely into the large, elegant room. However, it was not always like this: there was once a time when Sebastian's mere presence was enough to disturb the young boy's slumber.

But, that was a long time ago.

"Young Master," Sebastian ventured, moving over one side of the bed, "it's time to get up." When the figure inside the cocoon of sheets did not immediately respond, the butler tried once more. "Young Master," he said with more force.

When there was still no response, Sebastian knew it could not be helped. Frowning slightly, he reached out to nudge the boy. "Young Ma-!"

An arm emerged from the blankets to snatch his own. "Sebastian," Ciel's voice emerged with the rest of the boy's torso from under the sheets. Now sitting up, butler's arm still firmly in his grip, the young Earl glared through bed hair at the man before him. "I've repeatedly told you not to do that."

"My sincerest apologies," Sebastian replied, bowing his head, "but perhaps if the Young Master did not stay awake so late I would have less trouble waking him."

Ciel's frown deepened to one of annoyance. He said nothing, and instead focused on wiping sleep from his eyes, scowling down at his blankets as though disgusted with the soft fabric in which he had relished only moments ago.

Sebastian barely hid the smirk of amusement that threatened to shatter his demeanor. He hastily converted it into something of a smile, spinning on his heels and returning immediately to the tea tray.

"For today's breakfast I have prepared hot kedgeree," he said, handing Ciel a cup, "served with the Young Master's favorite Earl Grey tea. On today's schedule, the French tutor will be arriving at eleven, and after lunch you must go to the library, where we will discuss the Roman Empire. Later on in the evening, we have a guest arriving…"

----------------

Why is it that most businessmen are such poor chess players? Ciel vaguely turned this thought over in his mind, waiting more than patiently for his guest to make his next move. That guest was one Lewis Barlow, a Lord and the president of an up-and-coming candy company in Queenborough. As was scheduled for today, in the late afternoon the older gentleman had come on business, seeking what he referred to as a, "mutually advantageous alliance" between Funtom Company and his own.

"Since I am located closer to the sea," the chubby, pasty-faced redhead with mutton-chop sideburns had explained, "it would be easier for shipments of your products to be sent faster internationally, and it could possibly make it twice as fast or more on a domestic scale." With that, he moved his remaining rook to the left of Ciel's attacking bishop, boxing it in.

Ciel sat quietly for a moment, calculating. The pawn to the diagonal right of Ciel's bishop was quite open – an easy target. And, if he were to remove this bishop the opposing king would be in check and would be forced to move in a way that may benefit the Earl. However, it was clearly Lord Barlow's intention to trap Ciel. The boy now faced a choice: save his bishop by removing the enclosing pawn - which would take the bishop out on the next move anyway if he didn't - or somehow find a way to win without one of his key pieces. However, if he saved the piece, his opponent would only be one move away from the satisfaction of, "Check mate."

This scenario was similar to that which the head of Funtom Company now faced with the so-called "alliance." If Ciel accepted the proposed agreement, which at face value seemed like a good idea much like taking the pawn, there may have been something to gain... initially. But upon closer inspection, it too was a trap.

In reality, Ciel's opponent was trying to stick filthy fingers into a jar that was not his.

Much like the other businesspersons to pass through Phantomhive Manor, Lewis F. Barlow was a bad chess player. Without paying attention to the entire board, he had failed, like so many others, to notice the true danger. Lord Barlow had failed to notice that for all its strength and valor, it was not his bishop that deserved the most attention.

Ciel did not take his eyes off the board. "Children are especially fond of games," he said quietly, "but there is one thing about games that they cannot stand."

"Oh?" Looking up, Ciel noted the way in which Lord Barlow's lips twitched. This deformed half-smile was indicative of only one thing: any moment now, he was expecting surrender.

"Cheaters."

Silence.

"The only reason you came here today," Ciel explained simply, "was to try and convince me that you could turn an already smoothly run operation into 'something even better'. It was never about being able to benefit my company or yours – you knew that if you somehow got me to sign this contract, close to half of Funtom Co.'s profit would go directly to you. Yet despite the massive implications of your plan, you disguised your intentions in a poorly written document confident that because of my young age, I would not bother to read it." Ciel gestured to his desk, which was currently cluttered with several documents detailing the anatomy of this vile beast-of-a-plan.

"You made one critical mistake: underestimating your opponent." Moving his knight, made of the blackest ebony, Ciel cornered Lord Barlow's king. "Check mate."

Lord Barlow's pasty face regained a bit of color as a purple vein began to pulse in his forehead. From his throat emerged several sounds which seemed to be the start of words, but which came out more like gagging on an Adam's apple. Unable to find his tongue, Lord Barlow removed a handkerchief from one of his pockets and dabbed at his face, which was beginning to look more like a beet the longer he sat there.

"N-no, you... I-!"

It was at that moment when Sebastian entered the office with this afternoon's snack. Ciel pounced at the opportunity.

"Sebastian," he said quickly, "escort our guest to the door. We are finished with negotiations."

Immediately, and much to the Lord's chagrin, the butler complied. "Yes, My Lord." Without hesitation, Sebastian had a noticeably thunderstruck Lord Barlow on his feet and in what seemed like less than a few seconds, the "businessman" was out of Ciel's sight.

Leaning up against the arm of the royal green high-backed chair he was so fond of with a heavy sigh, Ciel now allowed himself to relax, awaiting Sebastian's return. Glancing over at the tray Sebastian had brought in, Ciel paid no mind to the extra set of dishes that would now be going to waste. He knew the butler would not mind – he almost never did. It was only on those rare occasions where he had put a bit of extra effort (on top of his traditionally extraordinary performance) that Sebastian's otherwise calm attitude would begin to fade. Though he didn't particularly wish to admit it, there were times when, despite himself, Ciel was grateful for having such an obedient butler.

But then, he remembered where those skills came from.

Still irritated by the meeting, Ciel fidgeted with the eye-patch that hung faithfully over his right eye. It hid his Faustian mark from the outside world, but even though it was a necessity, it could be such an annoyance sometimes.

Footsteps coming down the hall told Ciel that Sebastian was returning. Sure enough, the butler suddenly reemerged though the half-closed doorway, though not exactly as Ciel had expected him to.

"Young Master," Sebastian said mildly, "there was a letter for you on the doorstep. It must have just arrived." Sebastian turned the envelope over in his hand, a look of distaste marring his face. "How careless, leaving it on the steps like that."

Neither of them was curious as to the sender of this letter. The envelope was so distinctive - the tan color, and the elegant style and shape of the envelope, along with a crest-impregnated seal of red wax – it was enough to answer any questions they may have had, save one: its purpose.

Once the letter had exchanged hands, Ciel promptly cut the seal with a letter opener. Taking his time, he read it through slowly, being sure to catch everything: Her Majesty was not one to disappoint. Meanwhile, Sebastian busied himself by returning to his previous task and poured his master a cup of tea, presenting it with the afternoon snack: a strawberry tart, as only Sebastian could make.

These, Ciel took up after he had finished reading – but not before placing the letter back into the envelope, away from his butler's crimson eyes. Ciel knew this would annoy Sebastian; it was a fact that pleased him greatly. But even if it did annoy him, the butler gave no outward sign of indignation, as a servant of the Phantomhive household is wont. Rather, he stood patiently awaiting orders he knew were coming: a letter from the Queen deserves an immediate response from one of her Watchdogs.

Finally, those orders came:

"We leave for London in an hour."

Like the faithful creature he was, Sebastian bowed his head. "Yes, My Lord." Turning swiftly, he exited the room, heading immediately towards the bowels of Phantomhive Manor.

There was work to be done.


	3. Chapter 2

**Readers from before March 11, 2010, take note! I edited the whole story up to this point - I have added a prologue, and another chapter. (Chapter one is also a bit different, but its been so long since I updated, I don't think reading it again will be too much trouble.) ... And I suppose I may edit the dialogue in this chapter maybe once more... Maybe. And if it is, it'll be one line thats bothering me. :D Please take note of this! Also, I'll try to be quicker with my uploads, but I have been rather busy of late... Forgive me!**

**Also, thank you to those who have faved, read, whatever - its all good imho. Many thanks!**

CHAPTER 2

"Wait," Ciel said quickly as Sebastian started towards the stables for the carriage. "Have Tanaka do it today."

"Young Master?"

"I need to discuss something with you, in private. Before we arrive in London."

Sebastian bowed slightly, black fringes falling into his eyes. "Understood."

Tanaka wasn't able to do much because of his injury, but he was still a capable driver. It was normally Sebastian who escorted the Earl, serving not only as a butler but also as a bodyguard. (A Watchdog headed into danger; he needed protection, after all.) However, Sebastian now found himself in an unusual circumstance – at least, for a butler. They are not usually seen riding in a two-horse carriage, let alone with their masters. Still, at Ciel's insistence, he seated himself opposite of the boy and closed the door as the carriage began its journey.

"Sebastian," Ciel began immediately, "what do you know of the occult?"

"I have lived a long time, Young Master," Sebastian replied, his tone apologetic. "Perhaps if you narrowed your search…?"

"Hmph," Ciel frowned, closing the eye not obscured by his eye patch. "Satanism, then. Witchcraft - black magic. The 'dark arts.'"

Now it was Sebastian's turn to frown. "One would think, what with the Young Master's history, that he would know about such things already."

Ciel's lips tightened into a thin line. "That isn't what I asked you."

"They are dangerous," Sebastian said at once, "speaking from the human standpoint."

"I don't want the human standpoint," said Ciel. "I want your standpoint."

"Am I not human enough for you, Young Master?" Sebastian teased, smiling to himself as he caught the look of irritation that flashed behind Ciel's eyes. Clearly, the discussion was uncomfortable for his master. Naturally, Sebastian wanted to make it that much longer. "Demons have different views on the subject than humans do," the butler continued. "They aren't suitable for civilized conversation."

"I don't care," Ciel snapped, the calm demeanor he worked so hard to put out quite clearly overshadowed by the affliction of bad memories. "Just tell me what you know."

Although he did not show it, Sebastian was quite pleased with this outburst. Getting under Ciel's skin was something he rather enjoyed – at least, the part of him that wasn't a butler did. But there was a time and place to indulge in such pleasures, and now was not the time. It was rude to keep the Young Master waiting.

"The Black Arts," he began, "are a branch of the occult designed for solely malicious purposes. It is a type of sorcery, the art created by Man to try and be better than flesh and blood – an attempt to become more than he is meant to be. Dark magic is also associated with humans summoning and making pacts with demons." Sebastian hoped that this particular bit of information would generate some kind of visible response from the Earl, but he remained stone-cold as ever.

Pale fingers intertwined, knuckles pressed to his lips, Ciel considered his response. "Is that the purpose of such practices?"

"It is not the only one," Sebastian explained. "One of the various paths a practitioner of sorcery can follow is using magic to control someone, or to affect the outcome of another human's life or current situation. But, these are crimes against the natural order of things, and such acts are unforgivable by Heaven. This is when demons become involved.

"A demon," Sebastian stated matter-of-factly, "doesn't normally appear to a human unless it is wanted, brought out with some sort of purpose. This can be done through strong emotion, similar to how the Young Master summoned me, or it can be done through formal rituals. And," he added, "as the Young Master knows rather well, anyone who summons a demon, even accidentally, shall never pass through the gates of Saint Peter."

"Out of curiosity," Ciel put forth, obviously ignoring this last comment, "how do demons view practitioners of dark magic?"

"The same way humans view the cattle at the slaughterhouse," Sebastian said simply. "Young Master, if I may: why do you want to know about this subject?"

From his coat pocket, Ciel produced the envelope from the Queen. "There have been a number of mysterious murders in a seaside town to the north, Huntsdam. Some people suspect that dark magic may have been involved." He took out the letter so that Sebastian could read it. "Memorize it," he instructed.

Sebastian did so.

"As you can see," Ciel said, pointing to the letter, "we've been instructed to meet with Her Majesty's personal guard this evening at six o'clock, at the Lockheed Pub. He'll have the specific details."

"That will cut into dinner," Sebastian noted, bringing his hand up to his chin as he thought over his plan of action.

"Don't bother," Ciel interjected. "We won't be coming back."

* * *

The Lockheed pub had not existed in the public eye for very long. It was only once it had obtained a Royal Warrant that it was suddenly thrust into the gaze of the people. But, even if something as prestigious as a Royal Warrant had been earned, Wayland Deeds was not sure he liked what it had done for him.

Originally, he thought that having some of England's higher-ups would have been good for business. He thought that they would just settle down, slowly bringing a bit of fame or importance to his quiet little business that would increase his customers, and that eventually, he would earn more local respect from the community that he actually cared about. However, based on his income this month, it seemed that things were actually the other way around.

Deeds watched sadly as a group of darkly clad nobles chatted on in the corner. These were the only sort of folk he'd been receiving of late, making his neighbors wary. He was losing money. If he didn't come up with a way to bring customers back soon, he would go out of business – and for a business with a Royal Warrant to go belly up would hurt the Crown, as well. The Queen's reputation was at stake because of her nobles!

Sighing, Deeds resigned himself to cleaning the tables – the many empty tables – and trying to hear a little something of the conversation the shady nobles were having. Maybe, just maybe, as businessmen "in the know," they were saying something he could use as business information, to bring ale flowing through Lockheed's veins again.

After all, he figured, it was them that caused his woes to begin with.

Inching his way over to them, table by table, Deeds began to pick up on what was being said.

"You'd be surprised, Blackwood," a man with a raven-feather brooch was saying. "These are not the sort of people to be trifled with. They have an unparalleled record of excellence."

"Thus," said a man Deeds assumed to be Blackwood, "the Crown's dependence on them. They are nothing more than parasites, feeding off the Royal Family for lifeblood!"

"Are you forgetting that there is only one of them left?" an older man with a hooked nose spoke up with a voice that sounded rough as rock. "Somehow, the boy survived, but he is the only one that did. Is one boy – one boy _alone_ – really that much of a threat?"

"But he isn't alone," the first man spoke up. "Haven't you seen him when he wanders around the city? There is a man with him – tall, dressed in black. I hear he's very skilled."

"A bodyguard?" the old man questioned.

"A butler," Blackwood sneered, his distaste growing. "As if one little boy and his dog can best England's right hand."

Deeds slowed his pace considerably, focusing on making one of the table lamps, one that was covered in soot, completely dust free. What on earth were these men talking about?

The old man regarded Blackwood from behind his glasses. "England's right hand is known for its accuracy. Are you certain that this boy is a threat to us?"

"The Black Eagle doesn't lie." Blackwood said, and those around him quickly glanced around at their fellows.

The man with the brooch spoke up again. "The Eagle told you this?"

Blackwood only stared at him. "I trust there is no more doubt?" He then glanced at his fellows. "Carter?" The man with the brooch shook his head. "Fawkes?" The old man followed suit. "Harrison?" A younger man who hadn't spoken tilted his head slightly, but nodded.

"We are only to speak of this amongst ourselves," Blackwood growled. "Not a word to anybody – especially anybody that is close to Her Majesty. We must first be able to prove beyond a doubt that the Phantomhive family cannot be trusted before she is informed of what we plan to do. We shall discuss this more tomorrow. The usual place."

Without a word, the five men stood, said their goodbyes, and departed one by one. Only Blackwood remained behind, carefully buttoning his coat as he watched his companions go. Once he was the last, his black eyes flashed to the pub owner and a deep, hateful frown pulled at his skin.

"Eavesdropping is not something a man of your stature ought to be doing," he growled, stepping past the few tables with that separated them with hardly two steps. Terrified, Deeds backed away, but he soon found himself caught between the bar and the unruly noble. He felt the color drain from his face as he cowered from Blackwood, the massive man towering over the lower pub owner by at least a head.

Blackwood brought out a dagger from somewhere in his coat – Deeds didn't see exactly where, not daring to take his eyes off the noble's. Blackwood brought the blade up to Deeds' throat, and Deeds felt the telltale sting of a blade that begged for blood, but hadn't yet pierced the skin deeply enough.

"If you so much as breathe one word about what you heard here tonight, rat -," Blackwood hissed, spraying saliva with the force of his ale-tainted breath, "I will find you, and I will make sure you never speak of anything again." He mimicked slicing Deeds' cheeks from the mouth, a cut that would sever the cheeks along the jaw line and transforming his smile to one five times its size.

Deeds could only nod, shaking far too much for any coherent speech.

Blackwood replaced his dagger, eyed the barkeep for a moment longer, and then stormed from the pub. Deeds let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, suddenly finding his knees ready to betray him to the force of gravity.

Pompous bastards, he thought angrily, heaving breath into his lungs. Inwardly, he kicked himself for being spotted listening in. He'd be dead for sure if he ever saw that Blackwood man again. And was nearly being sliced open at the Adam's Apple worth it? Did he get anything out of it?

Why, of course not!

Deeds snatched a cup and filled it with ale – even if it was meant to be sold, he couldn't think of any way he'd rather lose money. Lord forgive him: - he needed a drink.

After a few moments, Deeds was beginning to relax. His heart no longer hid behind his tongue, and it had worked itself back into its proper place in his chest, slowing to a quiet, steady beat. He took another swig of ale, not caring that some foam had settled on his upper lip.

That was when the front door opened again, hanging bells chirping quietly from the momentum. Deeds nearly choked on the ale as he jumped out of his skin – only to find that it wasn't Blackwood, as he had imagined; it was a customer. The man had long black hair pulled back into a ponytail, wore thin glasses and looked very well dressed – he even had a sword.

A sword?

Wiping his face as the man approached the counter, Deeds noticed the details of the man's wardrobe: black trousers and shoes, with a black tailcoat that framed a royal blue vest, a red tie, and a white button-down shirt. A pocket watch with a chain the color of the sun hung from the vest, attached to it. The watch itself was stowed away in the breast pocket of the vest.

Reaching the bar, the man took a seat. "A drink," he said, putting a large coin on the counter-top. "Anything. Keep the change."

The coin was a half sovereign, worth much more than the drink itself. "S-Sir," Deeds began, adrenaline-charged body stuttering over simple conversation, "This is too much, I can't accept -."

"Just take it," the well-dressed customer insisted, pushing the coin farther away from himself to indicate he wanted nothing more to do with it. "I can't imagine a better use for it."

Shaky hands brought him his drink. Noticing this, the patron took a sip of his drink and then took to examine the mug. "My dear man," he said quietly, "you look like you've seen a ghost."

"What?" Deeds had just been eying the door. "Oh, no. Of course not. Why would you say such a strange thing?"

"Well," the stranger said, his face darkening, "in its history, this building used to be the home of a young couple. When the wife fell ill, the husband hired a nurse. However, the wife believed the nurse was, in actuality, her replacement. One day, the wife died. The husband had been out at work, and the nurse had been gone because it was her day off. Eventually, the husband remarried – of course, the beautiful nurse became his new wife, just as the dead woman had predicted." The stranger took another sip of his drink. "However, a few months later, the husband discovered his new wife hanging in the closet. She had hung herself. Her reason? Evidently, she had been complaining of hearing voices, being scratched, seeing shadows – all sorts of unnatural things. She claimed her husband's first wife had come back from the grave to haunt her."

Deeds scoffed. "I don't believe such rubbish."

"Nor do I," the man replied, glancing over at Deeds from behind the rim of his mug. "But it seems you still have problems. I did notice a brutish man on my way in. A noble, by the way he was dressed. They can be a problematic bunch."

"Speak for yourself," Deeds said, eyes narrowing a bit as he eyed the customer. "You're not wearing common clothing. Certainly, you must also be someone of importance."

"Me?" A mix of amusement and intrigue emerged from beneath his calm exterior, in the form of a pearl-white smile. "Heavens, no!" He stood up. "Augustine Talbot, head of Her Majesty's Royal Guard," he said, bowing his head slightly. "At your service."

"A guard, hm?" Deeds observed as Talbot sat again - not that he was interested by Talbot's occupation; if anything, if he was really a guard, it might stop Blackwood or his friends from coming back. Even though that scenario seemed unlikely, Deeds was not a man to play dice with chance. "You don't look like a guard," he said, hoping for some sort of identification – something, anything to ease his paranoia.

"No, indeed," Talbot replied, once again returning his attention to his drink. "I'm on private business."

"What business?"

Talbot remained silent. This was secret business, apparently. That did nothing to ease Deeds' unease. He returned to his own drink, and for a moment the two gentlemen sat in silence.

Then, the jingling of bells met their ears as the Lockheed's door swung open, admitting two figures – one, a boy, hardly into his teens; the other, a tall, aristocratic-looking man, who immediately took the young boy's cane, hat, and coat. A butler?

Talbot snatched up the mug and hastily downed the remainder of his drink. He leaned over the counter, closer to the bartender, and lowered his voice. "That business." Spinning around, he was on his feet in hardly a second, and quickly made his way over towards the newcomers.

* * *

"Earl," Talbot said as he approached, "we meet again." He bowed deeply, but he still looked down upon the Earl, the young noble being so much shorter. He knew it would not bother the Earl, though. He straightened himself again. "I only wish it were for better reasons. Come," he said, indicating for Ciel to follow.

Talbot then led Ciel and Sebastian to the rearmost table in the pub, the one farthest from the bar and, he knew, from ears that would seek to dine on confidential information. The bartender may have been a decent man, but decent did not mean honest. Talbot was no fool. Initially, he thought it may have been a dispute that caused the pub owner to look so distressed. But, after their conversation, it was only clear that Mister Deeds was a glutton for information. After all, what right did he, a civilian, have to ask a Royal Guard what business he had? Talbot knew with absolute certainty that curiosity would one day be Mister Deeds' undoing. It almost had been tonight.

Reaching the table, Sebastian pulled out a chair for Ciel and then took up a place just behind his master: just as butlers do not ride with their masters, they do not sit with them either. They are ever dutiful, ever ready to attend to any need. Talbot took up his own seat, opposite of the Earl, and folded his hands in front of him.

"As you know, your next assignment lies in the seaside town of Huntsdam," he began, completely serious. "Her Majesty believes there is much value in the land of this town, and that it could potentially evolve into a decent seaport if helped along. However, citizens have been leaving, and we aren't sure why."

That was a story believable enough to common ears. Her Majesty would sometimes seek strategic places to build ports or other things that would help build up England's power. But to Ciel, it was a great deal more than a message of real estate.

_However, citizens have been leaving, and we aren't sure why._

In other words, people were dying in circumstances they couldn't explain –at least, not without a pair of the Queen's eyes directly involved and situated in prime information gathering positions.

"Your job, Earl," Talbot continued, "is to find out what exactly is going on. How you fix the problem is up to you." Then he lowered his voice, so low that Ciel had to lean in just to hear him. "The victims are all the same: downtrodden civilians, drug addicts, prostitutes, thieves, misfits – one might think this would be a service to the land were it not murder. And from the way they're all connected, I'd say it is."

"But you wouldn't send me out so far just to investigate a serial killing," Ciel pointed out. "That's what the Yard is for."

"Quite right," Talbot replied. "But this isn't an ordinary case. The way in which the victims are dying makes it quite extraordinary."

"And how is that?"

"They die from blood loss," Talbot explained. "Actually, most of them don't have any at all. Each victim was cut from sternum to throat, and their hearts and right eyes were removed. It sounds like some sort of ritual sacrifice to me."

"I understand," Ciel said, and he did. More than Talbot or anyone other than Sebastian could have guessed.

"One more thing," Talbot said, "apparently, all this happened to the victims while they were still alive."


End file.
